Y/n’s sneakers squeak against the polished concrete as she steps further in, her eyes wide, trying to take in everything at once—the rigging of lights, the flutter of script pages, the distant murmur of tech checks.

Mason Thames stands a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of a worn vintage jacket. His hair is messier than in his headshots, artfully tousled, falling into his eyes. He’s taller up close. His smile is small, almost nervous, matching the energy crackling in the air between them.